CHAPTER 113 - Silver Springs (2)

Park City, Utah.

Thursday, 15 January 2009.

Eppie exited Universal’s private jet, chartered by Sir Woodhouse, and inhaled the frigid, mountain air.

The air was paper-thin, and her lungs felt it on the walk from the plane to the town car. Beside her, Valorie walked slowly, with a hand on her suitcase, trying to keep her balance.

For her Utah trip, things had gotten stranger before they settled.

First, Curon, who had been talking about it for weeks, revealed that he couldn’t attend after all because he was tied up producing Davis’ new girl pop sensations, whose schedule had been moved up.

They were moved up because Davis wanted the group out and dominating the media circuit before, invariably, Universal dropped Valorie’s new track and new look. Her father, not wanting to shirk his responsibilities to his friend and partner, could only promise that he would fly over if the schedule allowed.

Then, her backup chaperone, Dr Cooper, announced that he really wasn’t for these press junkets. He would much rather stay and work with Mio, and work on the theatre’s renovation, and work on her Saint Gospel Street script.

Ferroni was flying in from LA in cattle class, as were Norbert and Bebe.

And Aubert from Paris on business.

Eppie was perfectly content flying alone—until Woodhouse offered to take them both, as a favour, while desiring a favour.

And so it was that Eppie, trailed by a nervous Valorie who had to rest her head on the cold window pane, watched the canyon go by, white on grey on white.

It didn’t take long before they arrived at Park City.

A long time ago, the ski resort was a mining town. The story went that the soldiers of a certain Colonel Patrick Connor, stationed at Salt Lake to keep an eye on the Mormons, found silver in the hills instead. Then came the railway and the prospectors, and finally George Hearst himself.

It became Utah’s own little city of sin. Next to the prim and proper Salt Lake City without a lick of liquor, Park City had saloons, gambling dens and red-light districts galore.

And now it had a film festival.

The girls arrived at a house Universal had taken up in Deer Valley. A beautiful timber lodge with a fireplace so big Eppie could tour the interior. A very thankful Ferroni was already there, standing at a kitchen island with a schedule. He wore the same jacket that he wore while filming, and his coffee was already cold. Tomorrow, his film would be shown to the world.

As the debutant’s father, he was rightfully nervous.

Eppie hugged the man tight enough for him to stop jittering.

+ Karmic Causality

“You made it,” he said, looking past her at Val. “Miss Sanders. Thank you so much for the lodging. You have no idea how impossible it is to book anything for the week.”

It was true. For the film festival weekend, Park City was absolutely booked out. Not because of the guests, but because of the stars and their entourages and the staff and the press, and the staff brought in to feed the stars and the press and organise the junkets.

According to online rumours, even a garage could fetch a handsome price if someone put a bed in it and gave the renter access to the interior bathroom.

“I’ll be in your care,” Valorie said carefully, studying the director. “Please don’t mind me, I am just a hanger-on.”

“You’re our food and lodging,” Eppie laughed. “Take some pride in yourself.”

The deal she had cut with Woodhouse was that Valorie would join her as a companion on the tour. The trouble came when someone raised the question of whether a sixteen-year-old starlet should be sharing a house or indeed a room with an old director. This wasn’t one of those situations where someone could simply say, “ah, we’re all consenting adults.” The press there were innumerable, and Eppie had history with the press regarding her age, and her reputation for charming… fatherly men.

Valorie, therefore, made the perfect foil.

They were alumni from the same school.

They were publicly good friends.

And Valorie was over eighteen.

Rémy Aubert arrived just as the sky turned pink and the horizon became impossibly beautiful. He pulled in wearing a grey overcoat with the collar up and carrying a heavy canvas bag dusted with snow, looking like he had walked out of a magazine.

A Parisian magazine.

“Bonsoir, Josie,” the Frenchman said in the same flat tone as Marcel.

“Marcel.” Eppie altered her pitch to sound more like the younger Josie.

She helped the actor out of his coat, and the two of them embraced, with Aubert lifting her off her feet and taking her for a little spin.

“God, I’ve missed you.” Eppie took a moment to soak in Aubert’s artistic aura. “How have you been?”

“Doing press for the film in Paris and beyond,” the actor said in his characteristic accent. “Soon, we will find out if our media thinks I am lying. Our film critics are far less forgiving than the Americans.”

Ferroni groaned.

A private chef prepared their dinner.

Midway through a roast dinner, Norbert and Bebe arrived in a rental car. They had to drive from Salt Lake City itself, and had no place to stay. Valorie, who was technically the lodge mistress, offered them a place on the couch. They accepted graciously.

They ate a little of what was left of dinner, then stood in front of the fireplace to dry their clothes. After a moment’s hesitation, Valorie disappeared into what they assumed was the cellar and came out with the wine. They weren’t sure who the house belonged to, but now they suspected it actually belonged to Woodhouse, for the vintage was too good, and it was too accessible. Universal’s CEO was also known for being an avid skier.

“Très bien,” declared Aubert.

They poured a glass for everyone but Eppie.

Eppie, not to be denied, asked for a mouthful.

The Americans grew hesitant.

Aubert laughed at what he saw to be the irrational, puritanical habits of his American companions.

“Tomorrow.” Ferroni raised his glass. “Six thirty, everyone at the Eccles.”

They raised their glasses, Eppie included. In her glass, she had grape juice. Valorie had chosen to share her pain.

“Tomorrow.” Aubert saluted his fellow artists, then drained the glass.

Eppie eyed the vintage bottles.

Once the adults were sufficiently tipsy, she would become… a thieving cat.

Friday morning.

As it turned out, Eppie had one more stop before she could show up at the red-carpet tent and stake her place. Her clothes had not arrived with Valorie, but had gone further up the mountain, to where Mirabelle was staying.

Psst... this chapter was scraped from NovelPhoenix, and the author would much rather you read it there.

They drove through a winding set of roads cleared of snow and arrived at a palatial lodge that looked like a village had been built in the saddle of a mountain where the trees ended, and the snow began.

It was one of those lodges where the ski runs came down the mountain and into the back of it, interconnected with a chairlift, a viewing area, and a very expensive breakfast buffet where the price wasn’t displayed.

Unsurprisingly, Marta intercepted her in the lobby.

“Goodness! You didn’t cream your face?!” Marta was already pulling her into Mirabelle’s private suite, reserved for the occasion. “Do you have any idea what this amount of cold and sun and reflection does to the skin?”

“Hi Diana!” Eppie shouted to the amused lady at the window, enjoying the morning cold.

Eppie then sat like an obedient cat, for Marta’s process was no longer strange to her. Mirabelle stood at the window and spoke into an iPhone, sounding like the sternest boss in high fashion until she was done—whereupon she came and hugged Eppie like a cat before her make-up made her not nearly as accessible.

“Your metabolism is a wonder,” Mirabelle said, after a pause. Under her palm, parts that should have ballooned did not, at either location. “Teacher says you eat enough for yourself and George.”

“I am growing,” Eppie moped. Her figure, it seemed, was literally out of her hands. The [System] did not deem her suitable for Zara’s svelteness, nor Valorie’s sensuality—unless, perhaps, she was willing to pay for generational [Comeliness] with her literal life.

“Well, it suits you.” Mirabelle turned her chin this way and that. “If you manage your salt intake, stay away from alcohol and cigarettes, we’ll squeeze two more decades out of this, I guarantee it.”

Eppie thanked her fashion mentor.

Marta’s work on her face took under an hour. Au naturel foundations, with glossed lips that were presently in fashion, and dark liners that made her twice as catty. What surprised Eppie was that the garment bag didn’t hold just a dress, but a Conti camel wool coat cut to the knee with a funnel collar, and a dress of similar cut and colour, small and hugging, structured at the waist. Naturally, she was given another pair of Chanel in pink.

She also had a matching hat and enormous tortoiseshell glasses.

“Exquisite,” Mirabelle said, studying her work. She took a picture for her own records. “It almost takes us away to the French Alps. Now go and play. I have an editorial to run.”

The party for The Pro arrived as a group at the Eccles Centre, a high school auditorium transformed for ten days a year into a world-renowned theatre. It sat long and low, in tan brick and dark glass under a flat roof, with an enormous lobby behind which the auditorium rose like a hangar. It was easy to find where the red carpet was because an actress simply had to look for the bristling array of sponsor banners.

That, and outside it was twenty below, while the giant white tent was lit from within like a lantern, promising warmth.

From a line of black cars and rentals, the attendees for the first weekend of Sundance decanted themselves.

Despite having nowhere to go, Eppie and Valorie looked the part enough that the ushers directed them and their crew towards the tent. At Sundance, the carpet was onyx, and it ran through a backdrop of logos on one side and a small ocean of photographers on the other.

Most of the attendees opted for designer puff jackets and parkas.

The starlets, especially the festival’s discovered starlets, dressed for optics.

Aubert said, “Ladies first,” and off they went, Euphemia Fontaine and Valorie Sanders, one looking tiny in a camel coat and a camel hat, and cool sunglasses she removed after the first round so that she could reverse-flash the photographers with her baby blues.

“THANKS FOR THE FISH!” someone screamed from the crowd, much to the mirth of all involved. Eppie bowed.

Beside her, Valorie dazzled with Universal’s new marketing. Unlike Zara, who had dearly wished there was a crevice she could crawl into and disappear, Valorie was a natural. Her new look was borrowed from four decades earlier—a knitted top, long in the sleeve and high at the throat, with stripes that ran across her chest in cream, green, mustard, and navy bands. It was fitted to her so that her figure, peerless as it was, left no story untold. She also wore a pair of jeans in the deep old blue of the Deep South that sat above her navel and ran impossibly long to the floor. Her hair, which was usually a little frizzy, was parted in the middle and fell in waves, adorned by a matte jade headband.

What Eppie lacked, Valorie possessed.

And what Valorie lacked in adorability, Eppie possessed in abundance.

“Who is your friend?” the interviewer, already briefed, asked a canned question.

“This is Miss Valorie Sanders.” Eppie winked at the camera. “My close friend and the singer of my next song.”

The crowd wowed.

“She’s with Universal,” Eppie told them. “Think of that how you will.”

The press pool went wild. Flash after flash after flash bathed them in light until Valorie grew pink and Eppie put on her sunglasses.

“I hope you all enjoy the film.” She gave them a smile that used every ounce of her [Charisma], then made room for Aubert.

Aubert looked suave in his Parisian suit and in his long European jacket. It wasn’t so much the cut or the fashion. It was the atmosphere and the air. The veteran actor from Paris simply hit the lens different.

Ferroni came on next and was properly interviewed about his prospects for the film. In Eppie’s opinion, he did well. All things considered, though, the director was not yet famous enough to use hyperbole with confidence.

Once it was all done, she took Aubert by the arm, and Valorie took her director, and they walked off the carpet, waving before being ushered into the theatre.

Before they entered, they were halted by a commotion at the entrance, accompanied by the sound of screaming fans.

Kelvin Grant walked into the tent in an oversized black Hugo Boss puffer, styled with a masculine, militant air. No doubt, it would be the season’s bestseller simply for this singular moment.

As he passed, he momentarily turned quicksilver.

Then he reached out to Eppie.

She went to him.

“Josie,” the rapper said.

“Tull.” Eppie held out a hand.

Then, in front of the cameras, they hugged.

Sony’s star performer.

And Sony’s pet songwriter.

What wonders would they produce? The headlines would ask. Only time would tell.

Inside, the Eccles felt bigger than Eppie had recalled from her prior life. There were 1,270 seats and a screen custom-built for Sundance. It was in the backstage area that she was reunited with Bebe and Norbert.

Unlike the audience, who could simply take their seats either in the boxes or in dress rows, they had to wait until their film slot began, whereupon they would speak a few words of thanks and gladness to the audience.

Both Bebe and Norbert were stuffed on canapés.

Behind them lay a relic of the theatre’s past: a corridor of grey metal lockers, long abandoned.

Valorie was already in the box. The stage would be theirs alone.

“You’re shaking,” said Aubert. “Good.”

She could see that everyone was shaking, Kel included. The boy had strong feelings about the film because he had been criticised and had been made to work. Unlike his music making, he hadn’t been given a sheet, told to perform, and then glazed by his handlers. Cooper had been relentless, and Kel had felt the achievement in his bones.

It was now 6:30 p.m.

On stage, which they could see through the stage-right entrance, an announcer in a fleece vest and lanyard told the crowd that the film they were about to watch was a film of firsts, thanks to the festival’s sponsors.

It was the first feature film for a veteran TV director.

The first film for a singer-songwriter.

The first film for a renowned African American thespian.

The first film for a trending rapper.

It was a film with a troubled script, rewritten and renewed.

“... Please welcome to the stage, director Jack Ferroni—!”

Jack walked out onto the stage as a nervous wreck, his back straightening with every step. By the time he gave his thirty-second speech, he was more than relieved to turn towards stage right and say, “Please meet the lovelies who made my dream possible.”

This time Rémy went first, and the French actor was met with a standing ovation. To Eppie, the sound rose and fell from one side to another like the surf.

Then Kel, who should have been Cooper, entered to the sound of shrill screams and scattered applause.

Then came her turn. She, in her beige camel Conti dress, her eyes catching the enormous stage lights from above, embraced the thousand or so cheering faces. She scanned the crowd and waved and smiled and felt the applause wash over her. Someone, as expected, started the song.

Too many Wallies had sung it too many times in too many garages, and it still lived rent-free in the American psyche.

A row of the rowdy audience sang a verse, and with a microphone in hand, she returned a verse, her voice filling the auditorium.

Then the whole place had no choice but to answer—

—and as per the song, she too had to answer.

It was only two minutes, but the echoing mirth of her fans had set the headlines and set the mood of her cinematic ascension.

+Karmic Causality

After tonight, either they took home awards, or she would be panned so viciously that cinema would forever be denied to her.

Eventually, her gaze landed near the front, and she found in the fourth row a blonde girl her age with a face like ice between two men in studio jackets. Their section did not clap. Nor did they sing. Their badges, Eppie noted with her pale blue cat-eyes, read Paramount.

The critics took notes.

Then the lights went down.

And The Pro began.